


Shootin’ Practice

by NB_Cecil



Series: Warlock MLM Cowboys [1]
Category: Warlock (film 1959)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, MLM Cowboys, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Cowboy Romance, Touching, Western, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: Set prior to the events of the 1959 western film,Warlock. Johnny and his younger brother, Billy, show up at the San Pablo ranch asking for work. Johnny is young, green, and can’t shoot straight. Curley takes it upon himself to teach Johnny to shoot properly before he gets them all killed. A slow-burn MLM cowboy romance.
Relationships: Johnny Gannon/Curley Burne
Series: Warlock MLM Cowboys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750693
Comments: 6
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Curley Burne is played by DeForest Kelley in the film, and we all know I love him a whole lot... 💕
> 
> I have all the chapters drafted, so I should be editing and posting every few days.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curley discovers Johnny is a lousy shot and sets about trying to rectify this.

“Tomorrow we’re ridin’ out to the desert and I’m teachin’ you how to shoot straight,” Curley declared, shaking his head at the mess Johnny had made of the old horse. He’d shot her three times at close range, missing his mark each time so that the animal, lying in a ditch with her leg broken, shrieked in pain and terror, before Curley drew his gun and in one swift, fluid movement, took aim and shot the horse clean through the temple. Johnny followed a few steps behind him on shaky legs up the dirt track to the ranch.

Johnny’s younger brother Billy had always been a natural with a gun, ever since he’d first picked up a pistol as a little kid. Their father had tried to teach Johnny handle a gun properly, but Johnny found it difficult. His draw was clumsy, and he could never shoot straight. He disliked practicing, and never really mastered the skill, relying on the display of carrying a gun to keep most people from pulling _their_ gun on him. After their father’s sudden and untimely death, when Johnny was twenty and Billy just eighteen, Johnny had taken on the role of family administrator, going into town for supplies, and handling the money and the business side of their small farm. Billy did the necessary with the defence side when required. When a group of outlaws arrived and drove the young brothers off their land, Billy had been outgunned, and Johnny was next to useless. They fled with a horse each and the clothes on their backs, riding haphazardly through the desert until they came upon the San Pablo ranch. It had been Curley who had talked McQuown into taking them on, reasoning “if we had a couple of folk to take care of the menial tasks on the ranch, we’d free up men to expand the other areas of our business.” That was nine months ago, and Johnny and Billy had worked diligently for board and lodging, eventually earning enough trust from the San Pabloites to be cut in on the cattle rustling and stagecoach hold-ups that formed the majority of the gang’s “business”.

Curley shook Johnny awake before dawn and they slipped quietly out of the bunkhouse and rode out into the desert. They stopped by a rocky outcrop as the sun rose, and Curley produced an armload of empty bottles from his saddlebag. “You don’t want the others findin’ out you’re a lousy shot,” he said as he lined them up, “they’ll kill you while you sleep... or worse,” he added ominously.

Johnny’s first shot, taken from twenty paces away, sailed wide over the top of the bottles and pinged harmlessly off the wall of rock behind them.

“You’re flickin’ your wrist as you fire,” Curley said.

“Am I?” Johnny said, surprised. He had never noticed.

“Keep your hand still,” Curley said. He stepped behind Johnny and covered Johnny’s gun hand with his own. They raised Johnny’s gun together, Curley leaning over Johnny’s shoulder to sight the shot. “Now, keep still, remember?” Curley said as he pressed Johnny’s finger against the trigger. Johnny felt the resistance as he involuntarily jerked his hand at the last moment against Curley’s rock-steady grip. The shot went wide again. Curley pulled out his own gun and picked off a couple of bottles by way of demonstration.

When they ran out of bottles, Curley scratched crosses on the rock with a stone. They weren’t as easy to pick out in the glare of the morning sun, but Johnny’s shots, while still off the mark, got a little closer with each attempt. Curley mostly stood back, watching him work it out for himself, occasionally giving an instruction or coming over to adjust Johnny’s grip. After an hour of shooting they rode back to the ranch to start their day’s work. “Next time,” Curley said as they dismounted, “we’ll work on your stance.”

It was nearly a week before Johnny and Curley found time to ride out to the desert again. It was calving season and Johnny and Billy were busy with the herd while McQuown had Curley and the rest of the ranchers holed up most days in the big ranch house McQuown occupied, planning a robbery or a big cattle heist, Johnny didn’t know which. They eventually found time late one afternoon, saddled up, and rode far enough away from the ranch that their shots would not be heard by the other cowboys. Curley set out a row of bottles.

“Bend your knees,” Curley said as Johnny took aim for his first shot. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “If you need to aim lower, bend your knees. Don’t point your gun down. Look.” He took aim, half-crouching to get level with the target, and fired. A bottle exploded. “Now you,” he said.

Johnny bent his knees into a half-squat, took aim, squeezed the trigger, and missed.

“I’m gonna show you.” Curley replaced his gun in his belt and walked over to Johnny. He stood close behind him. “You copy me, ok?” He said, stepping so close that he brushed up against Johnny’s back. Johnny felt his heart skip a beat. Curley wasn’t bad looking after all. He must be—What...? Thirty? Thirty-five?—Johnny thought. Not so much older than Johnny’s twenty-one years that he would think of Johnny as just a kid, surely? And that broad grin that spread across his face when he was smooth-talking was just... Johnny snapped out of his thoughts when Curley tapped his thigh.

“Knees,” Curley said, and, taking a firm grip on Johnny’s hip, just above his gun belt, slowly bent his own knees, forcing Johnny to bend with him. Johnny relaxed a little and let Curley position him the way he wanted. He lined up the shot, Curley’s right hand cupping his elbow, its presence a reminder to keep his hand steady as he fired, his chin resting on Johnny’s shoulder, eyes focused on the bottle ahead of them, chest pressed against Johnny’s back, left hand still on the younger man’s hip, and kneecaps pressing into the backs of his knees.

“When you’re ready,” Curley murmured.

Johnny let out the breath he’d been holding and squeezed the trigger. The bottle shattered. “Hey!” He turned to Curley, an exuberant look on his face. “I hit it!”

“Safety,” Curley admonished. 

“Yeah.” Johnny’s cheeks reddened a little at having to be reminded. He flipped the safety catch and holstered his gun.

“You’re gettin’ better,” Curley said.

That night, Johnny lay awake listening to the other cowboys snoring. He rolled over and looked over to Curley’s bunk opposite his own. He could just see the sleeping man’s silhouette outlined in the the moonlight spilling through the narrow window. He watched Curley’s back rise and fall in the slow, deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curley keeps finding excuses to touch Johnny while they’re out shooting.

The shooting lessons became a part of the San Pablo ranchers’ routine, with the two men riding out to the desert once or twice a week for a couple of hours’ practice. If the other cowboys commented—and they surely noticed—it wasn’t within Curley or Johnny’s earshot.

As the weeks progressed and they became more comfortable around each other, Curley gave his instructions with fewer words and more touch, a short-hand of tactile signals developing between the pair: a quick press of fingertips against his elbow would have Johnny tuck his shooting arm in; he would widen his stance in response to a sharp tap on his thigh; and a murmured “look up” while Curley stood behind him, pressed close against his back, chin propped on Johnny’s shoulder, accompanied by a light squeeze of Curley’s hand on his hip, would prompt Johnny to direct his gaze at the target, not his gun.

Johnny found himself looking forward to each shooting session, falling asleep hoping Curley would wake him in the small hours and they’d head out together before the others awoke. Shooting a gun was no longer an activity he loathed, and when the time came to ride out some forty miles to a nearby town to rob the stagecoach, Johnny felt excitement bubbling in his chest, and his hand kept coming to rest on the handle of his gun as they rode. During the long days’ work on the ranch, when it was mostly just him and Billy and he was going about some menial task, Johnny would catch himself thinking of Curley’s hand on his hip as he lined up a shot, or the way Curley smiled and his eyes sparkled whenever Johnny hit the mark. He’d dismiss these thoughts as foolish, and try to focus on his work, but his mind kept going back Curley and the time they spent together out in the desert.

The first time Johnny fired off an entire round in quick succession and every shot hit its target, he turned, grinning, to Curley. Curley took a few steps back and raised two fingers to the brim of his hat in acknowledgment of Johnny’s success. “You’re gettin’ good at this, kid,” he drawled. Johnny tugged his own hat down low over his eyes so Curley wouldn’t see him blush at the praise. “Keep this up and you won’t need my help.”

“Oh, I—uh—” Johnny faltered, panic rising up inside him at the thought of his shooting lessons with Curley coming to an end. “Maybe we can work some more on my draw?” He said hopefully.

Curley responded by reaching for his gun lightning-quick. Johnny was not far behind in pulling out his own weapon.

“You’re pretty fast.” Curley patted Johnny’s gun belt. “Pretty fast.”

Johnny couldn’t help shooting deliberately wide of the target every so often for the rest of the session, in the hope of prolonging the time he and Curley spent alone together a little longer.

It was late afternoon and Curley and Johnny were lying on their bellies in the sand, shooting corks off the top of a wide, flat rock. Curley holstered his gun and opened his canteen, rolling onto his side to drink. Seeing an opportunity, Johnny made a grab for Curley’s gun. Curley’s reaction was instant and—sloshing water over both of them in the process—he quickly wrestled Johnny onto his back and got astride him, pinning his shoulders to the ground with his hands. 

“You thought you’d put one over on Curley Burne, huh?” He smirked down at his opponent.

“I thought it was worth a try.” Johnny grinned back up at him.

Curley emptied the remaining contents of the canteen over Johnny’s head while Johnny laughed and protested, trying—and failing—to shove him off. Curley sat back on his heels and took his time replacing the lid on the empty canteen, then set it aside. Suddenly, he grabbed Johnny’s collar and pulled him up so that their faces were inches apart. For a moment, Johnny thought Curley was going to kiss him, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips in anticipation, but Curley yanked him roughly to his feet and declared they had been out long enough and should be heading back to the ranch.

A week later, Curley was pressed up against Johnny’s back, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other outstretched, pointing to a tiny wisp of vegetation growing atop a distant rock, at which he wanted Johnny to aim his shot. Johnny turned his companion, about to ask if he was serious, if that shot was even possible, but the words caught in his throat when their eyes locked. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Johnny, feeling awkward, asked, “What?”. Curley took half a step away and looked down at the ground. When he looked up again, it was to point once more at the scrap of vegetation, and to instruct Johnny again to aim his shot at it. Curley kept a few paces’ distance from Johnny for the rest of that session, and was mercilessly critical of Johnny’s technique, berating him for the slightest faults.

That night, Johnny lay awake for a long time, imagining all the ways his poor shooting skills might get him, Curley, Billy, and the rest of their gang killed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a long ride moving a herd of stolen cattle, Curley and Johnny each do some thinking.

It was their turn to ride at the back of the herd, driving the stragglers onward in the dust kicked up by thousands of hooves. Johnny and Curley wore their neckerchiefs tied tight around their faces and their hats pulled down low to keep the worst of it out of their eyes, noses and mouths. They were twelve days into the long ride from the Mexican boarder back to Utah with around a thousand head of stolen cattle. They rode in silence, as speaking tended to dislodge their face coverings, allowing more dust to creep in.

Johnny rode a little way behind Curley, watching him sway in his saddle, and thinking about the sleeve of Curley’s green corduroy jacket—now covered in a layer of beige dust—brushing rough against his arm as, in his daydream, Curley adjusted Johnny’s grip on his gun. He thought back to that moment, not long before they’d set out on their cattle rustling jaunt, when he’d lain pinned in the sand underneath Curley, and how Curley’s demeanour had suddenly switched from playfully intimate to brusque and distant. He was pretty certain he wasn’t imagining Curley’s interest in him, wasn’t misreading the signs, but every time Johnny had been about to make a move, or thought Curley intended to, Curley had suddenly become closed-off, short-tempered, and put physical and emotional distance between them. Johnny considered using this time of relative privacy, away from the other cowboys, to raise the subject of these recent moments between them. He imagined urging his horse on to close the distance between him and Curley, riding up beside him and saying... What, exactly? _“Hey, about that time out in the desert when you threw water over me then nearly kissed me?”_ Curley would probably punch him right off his horse. He ran through several scenarios in his head, all of them ending with Curley hitting him, shooting him, or riding along in stony silence, ignoring him completely. He kept quiet and stayed riding several feet behind Curley until the time came to make camp.

That night, Curley lay awake between McQuown lying a little way off to his right, and Johnny, closer, on his left. Unable to sleep with the dust he’d inhaled during the day irritating the back of his throat, his mind replayed memories of time spent out in the desert with Johnny. He chuckled to himself as he remembered Johnny punching the air in celebration after hitting hit an especially tricky target, and pressed his hand to his own hip, where he was in the habit of resting it on Johnny when guiding him to line up a shot. He thought back to that afternoon when Johnny had turned suddenly and caught his gaze, imagining that, instead of looking away when Johnny has asked “What?”, Curley had leaned in a kissed him. He pulled off his neckerchief and fumbled his pants open. With as little movement as possible, so as not to wake his fellow cowboys, Curley lay touching himself in the dark, letting his fantasy of that kiss and what might have happened afterward play out slow and sensual in his mind. He brought himself silently to orgasm, caught his load in the neckerchief, stuffed it into his pocket, then buttoned himself up again. He shuffled over toward Johnny a little and reached tentatively out to touch the sleeping man’s shoulder, then thought better of it and withdrew his hand. He pushed his face into the saddlebag—a makeshift pillow—under his head, and screwed his eyes tight shut, trying to push thoughts of Johnny and the scratching in his throat out of his mind in the hope of getting some sleep.

The next day, a chill wind whipped up as they rode, and by the time night fell it was bitterly cold. The cowboys huddled around their campfires, Curley, Johnny and Billy lying close to each other to conserve their body heat. 

“A man could die on nights like this,” Curley muttered as they settled down to sleep. 

Some time in the night, Curley shook off the fog of sleep to find Johnny pressed up against his chest, cupping his face in his hand and stroking a thumb across the stubble on his cheek. Still half-asleep, Curley grunted and kissed Johnny’s palm before drifting off again. When he awoke the next day, he wasn’t sure if the memory was of a dream or reality. He sat and watched Johnny and Billy build a fire and brew coffee, trying to figure it out. It _felt_ real enough, but he couldn’t be sure. 

Johnny rode beside Curley, stealing glances at him and waiting for him to say something about their moment of sleepy intimacy the previous night, but Curley didn’t raise the subject, instead whistling tunes and chattering about the landscape they passed, who in Warlock he had a mind to call out, and who, among the saloon girls, he had a mind to spend a night with. Johnny concluded Curley’s silence on the subject was a clear rejection and resolved to pretend it never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve added this to a series because I’m working on a PWP one-shot for this pairing which I’ll post once this fic is finished. So if you want more Curley/Johnny, subscribe to the series and you’ll get a notification when I post it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The San Pabloites get in a shoot-out in Rattlesnake Canyon.

“I’ll be ridin’ into Warlock to visit the bathhouse and get a shave,” Johnny said. He rubbed his hand over his stubble.

“I’ll tag along,” said Billy, “I got a girl there sweet on me.”

Curley, riding a little ahead of the brothers, shouted back to them. “She’s only sweet on you when you’re payin’.”

“At least I’m gettin’ some!” Billy shouted back.

Curley slowed his horse so the brothers could catch up with him. “What you talkin’ about all this stuff we can’t have right now, anyway?” He asked. “We’re still at least four days’ ride out of San Pablo.”

“It’s nice to make plans.” Johnny shrugged.

The sound of galloping hooves interrupted their conversation and the three men twisted in their saddles to see one of the back-riders tearing down the trail toward them at full tilt. “Mexicans trailing us!” He shouted as he shot by on his way to the front of the group to alert McQuown.

“We can’t out-run them,” Curley said, “They’re too close and we’re too slow with all these cattle.” He paced back and forth as he spoke. Johnny watched from a little way off as Curley and McQuown talked. “If we drive some of the cattle into the canyon, then I can take a group of us and cut them off. Give you a bit of time to get the rest of ‘em back to the ranch.”

“How many?” McQuown asked.

“I dunno, two hundred?” Curley shrugged.

“I’m not losin’ that many.” McQuown waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, what we do is, some of us’ll take up positions along that ridge,” he pointed at an outcrop overlooking the nearby Rattlesnake Canyon, “and we drive the whole lot into the canyon, and as soon as those Mexican bastards ride in after them, you follow ‘em with a second group and cut ‘em off. We’ll gun them down before they’ve even realised we’re there.”

“A massacre?” Curley stopped pacing and folded his arms across his chest. “That’s a bit low even for you ain’t it, Abe?”

“It’ll get rid of our problem.” McQuown shrugged.

“And bring a posse down on us quick as anythin’.”

“Not if it ain’t us doin’ the masacrin’.”

“Whad’ya mean?” Curley scowled.

“If we strip down an’ paint ourselves up with mud,” McQuown reasoned, “they’ll think we’re Apaches. The survivors—if there are any—will go runnin’ into town hollerin’ about Indians not cowboys.”

“You’re despicable.” Curley spat in the dust. “I ain’t havin’ any part in this.” McQuown rested his hand on his gun and stood grinning at Curley, waiting for him to come around to the idea. “Alright,” Curley said after a pause, “I’ll do it, but I ain’t happy about it. Not at all.”

“Where the hell is your brother, Gannon?” McQuown snapped.

“I dunno,” Billy replied. He wiped the mud and sweat from his face and neck, rinsed the cloth in the stream, wrung it out and handed it over to Curley.

“He was with you.” McQuown looked sharply at Curley.

“He rode in with us,” Curley said. “I lost track of him durin’ the shootin’.”

“Then you’d better find him,” McQuown said. “We’re movin’ out in fifteen minutes. If you’re not with us, you’re on your own.”

Curley and Billy pulled on their shirts and mounted their horses. They rode out in opposite directions, intending to ride in a wide circle around their current position in the hope of finding Johnny.

Curley had about given up and was ready to ride back to the herd when he spotted a flash of faded blue denim under a tree. He dismounted several feet away and approached slowly on foot. “Johnny?” He called softly. “That you?” There was no answer. He crouched beside his friend, who was curled on the ground in a foetal position, silently shaking. Curley touched his shoulder. “We’re movin’ out,” he said.

Johnny lifted his head slightly and looked up at Curley. “They didn’t stand a chance,” he said in a small voice.

“I know,” Curley said. “C’mon. We gotta go.” He took hold of Johnny’s hand and tried to pull him to his feet, but Johnny remained limp and uncooperative. “You want me to leave you here?” He asked, sternly.

“I can’t—” Johnny’s words hitched on a sob.

“You have to, unless you want to die out here.” 

“I killed ‘em!” Johnny wailed. Curley silently cursed himself for mentioning dying. “Gunned them down! Six of ‘em!”

“Not now, Johnny. C’mon.” Curley grabbed his friend’s arm, slung it over his shoulder, and tried again to lift him to his feet.

Johnny pushed him away. “They didn’t stand a chance. Not a chance. Not a...” He trailed off as tears sprang from his eyes.

Curley stood up and pulled out his gun. “Up,” he commanded, gesturing with at Johnny with the pistol. “Stop muckin’ about.” Johnny stared blankly up at him. He flipped the safety off. “I’m serious,” Curley snapped, “I’ll shoot you right here if you don’t get up.”

Johnny stood, slowly, on shaky legs. Curley cursed under his breath when he noticed the dark wet stain on Johnny’s slacks. Johnny doubled over and vomited in the sand. Curley fetched a canteen from his horse and handed it over. He waited while Johnny rinsed his mouth out and took a long drink. Johnny’s horse was back in the canyon, so Curley helped him into his own saddle and they rode back to the rest of the gang with Johnny slumped limply against Curley’s back, and Curley with one hand holding the reins and the other gripping Johnny’s hands clasped around his waist to keep him from falling off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events in Rattlesnake Canyon, Johnny experiences nightmares.

“Christsakes! Shut it, would you!”

Curley woke with a start at the shout and the sound of a teacup smashing on the wall above Johnny’s bunk. He sat up. “What’s goin’ on?” He asked, blearily.

“Young Johnny here’s moanin’ and groanin’ again in his sleep,” one of the cowboys complained.

“I—I’m sorry,” Johnny stammered, “I get... nightmares.”

“Well, can you get ‘em quieter? Men are tryna sleep here.”

“Alright, alright.” Curley said placatingly. He threw off his blanket and got out of bed. “I’ll deal with it.” He pulled back the curtain dividing the sleeping area from the main room of the bunkhouse. He called Johnny’s name quietly and Johnny followed him out. 

Curley lit a lamp and he and Johnny sat down at the table. “Wanna tell me what’s up?” He asked softly so as not to disturb the others any further.

Johnny placed his hands flat on the tabletop and stared down at them. “I keep thinkin’ about those Mexicans,” he said.

“That was months ago.”

“Yeah, but I keep dreamin’ about it.”

Curley reached over the table and took Johnny’s hand in his. “You gotta put it outta your mind, Johnny. Bein’ a cowboy’s a messy business. You can’t go thinkin’ too much.”

“Easy to say.” Johnny sighed and pulled his hand away.

“Yeah, well you gotta do it.” Curley said. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Otherwise you go mad.”

“Huh.” Johnny grunted.

“C’mon,” Curley said, cocking his head in the direction of the sleeping area. “We’re goin’ back to bed.”

“If he can’t sleep quietly, he’ll sleep in the barn.” McQuown banged his fist down on the table. The discussion was over. That night, Johnny took a lamp, his pillow and blanket to an outbuilding just off the yard and settled down on the dirt floor between sacks of oats and a pile of old farm tools. He didn’t sleep much, but neither did he wake up screaming.

Several nights into his exile from the bunkhouse, Johnny had just pulled his boots off and climbed into his makeshift bed when the door to the outbuilding opened to reveal Curley.

“I came by to say goodnight,” Curley drawled, leaning on the doorframe.

“Ok...” Johnny frowned up at him. “Goodnight, then.”

Curley remained hovering in the doorway. After a pause, he said, “A man shouldn’t wake up screamin’ in the night an’ all alone. One or the other, but not both.” He took a hesitant step toward Johnny and pushed the door closed.

Johnny patted the bare floor beside himself and Curley stepped closer, bent over and pulled his boots off, then, without saying a word, lay down next to Johnny. Johnny pulled the blanket over them both and blew out the lamp.

The next night, Curley was back with his own blanket folded under his arm. When Johnny woke screaming just before dawn, Curley held him and stroked his back, hushing and rocking him until he calmed down. He fell asleep again with his head in Curley’s lap.

“Why’re you sleepin’ out here anyway?” Johnny asked. It was the eighth night Curley had come to sleep in the outhouse with Johnny.

Curley rolled over to face away from Johnny. “I told ya, it ain’t right for a man to be screamin’ alone at night,” he replied.

“You could be sleepin’ in a nice warm bunk with the stove goin’ instead of out here in the cold.” Johnny said. 

“An’ you’d be screamin’ alone all night...” Curley repeated.

“They’re talkin’, y’know,” Johnny said. “The others. They’re talkin’ about us. It ain’t pretty.”

“Let ‘em talk. If anyone says anythin’ to my face or yours, I’ll shoot him.”

Johnny nodded to himself in the dark. Besides McQuown, Curley was the quickest draw among the San Pabloites. And he could cut a man down with just his words. The other ranchers respected him and he held considerable power as McQuown’s right-hand man. Johnny didn’t doubt the sincerity of his statement.

“Alright then,” Johnny said. Then, after a pause, “Night, Curley.”

“Night, Johnny.” Curley rolled over and flung an arm over him, spooning him. “You sleep well, now.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny gets attacked by some of the gang members.

Johnny set the curry comb aside and stepped back to admire his work. “There you go, gal. All nice and clean.” He patted the horse’s shoulder. She stamped her hoof and swished he tail in response. Suddenly aware of a presence behind him, Johnny spun round. Two cowboys were standing nonchalantly in the stable doorway.

“Well, look who we got here without the big man to protect him.” One of the men drawled.

Johnny reached for his gun, but realised he’d left it in the outbuilding which was now his bedroom. He lifted his hands slowly and backed up a few steps. “Boys...” He said, placatingly.

They rushed him. One grabbed his arms and yanked them behind his back, holding him still while the other swung at his face. “You’re yellah!” They yelled as the hit and kicked him. “You’re weak! You’ll get us all killed one day.”

When they were done kicking and punching him they dragged him out to the yard, threw him down by the trough, filled a bucket from the pump and emptied it over his head. They swaggered off, laughing.

Johnny lay beside the trough, drifting in and out of consciousness for—he didn’t know how long. Every time he tried to get up he was overwhelmed by dizziness and blacked out. Eventually, he was roused by the sound of hooves and the wheels of a cart rumbling on the ground. He craned his head up to see around the edge of the trough, trying to catch sight of whoever was approaching, but the dizziness overcame him and he slumped down.

“Hey.” Cold water splashed onto Johnny’s face. “Hey, Johnny. Hey. C’mon an’ wake up now.” He opened his eyes to see Curley looking down at him, an expression of concern on his face. Johnny groaned. Curley hushed him, got his arm under Johnny’s head and pulled him into a half-sitting position. “You alright?” He asked, dabbing at a cut on Johnny’s face with a wet cloth. Johnny winced as the water stung the fresh wound, and groaned again. Curley picked him up, slung him over his shoulder as carefully as he could and carried him to the outbuilding, where he laid him on the makeshift bed. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said as he headed to the door, drawing his gun as he went.

Johnny lay on top of the blanket listening to the commotion in the yard. There was shouting followed by the scuffling of a fistfight. He hoped Curley wasn’t going about getting them both killed.

Eventually, after more shouting, the sounds of jeering and hooves galloping into the distance told him the fight was over. The outbuilding door opened and Curley walked in. “They’re gone an’ they won’t be comin’ back,” he announced.

Johnny tried to push himself up on his elbows, sucked in a sharp breath as pain shot through his body, and lay down again. “McQuown’s gonna be furious,” he said.

“He’ll get over it.” Curley shrugged. He touched a finger tentatively to a bruise blossoming below his left eye and winced.

That night, as Johnny lay with his head resting against Curley’s chest, Curley pressed a single kiss to his cheek, taking great care not to bump any of Johnny’s bruises.

As soon as Johnny was up and about again Curley insisted they ride out to the desert so Johnny could practice his shooting. Curley relentlessly drilled him for an afternoon and an evening, nitpicking every detail, never satisfied, even when Johnny hit every mark, round after round. Only when it became too dark to see did Curley relent, and they rode back to the ranch in silence. They lay side-by-side in the dark that night, Curley staring at the ceiling in the gloom, listing aspects of Johnny’s shooting technique he insisted required improvement. Johnny woke screaming twice in the night, but Curley stubbornly pretended to sleep right through it.

Curley didn’t let Johnny out of his sight over the next week, and his manner was exceptionally irritable. He snapped at everyone, especially Johnny, and took to settling disagreements with his fists rather than smooth-talking his way through conflict they was he usually did. He and Johnny continued to sleep in the outbuilding, but they lay stiffly side-by-side in silence each night, waiting for sleep to take them. Eventually, Johnny couldn’t stand the tension any longer, so one night, when Curley came to lie down on the dirt floor beside him, he asked, “Why’re you still botherin’ to sleep out here anyway?”

“What?” Curley snapped back.

“It’s clear you can’t stand me,” Johnny pressed. “Why you still sleepin’ here?”

“Goodnight, Johnny.” Curley cut him off.

Johnny was silent for a while, then asked again. “Why you sleepin’ out here, Curley?”

Silence.

“Curley...?” He tried once more.

Curley sighed loudly, rolled over to glare at him and snapped, “I might be fond of you, alright?” He reached out and touched Johnny’s shoulder lightly.

“Yeah?” Johnny scooted a little closer to Curley. “Well, you got a funny way of showin’ it.” Curley wrapped his arms around Johnny and pulled him to his chest. Johnny huffed a laugh at Curley’s gruff manner. He wriggled up in their makeshift bed until his face was level with Curley’s and—quickly, before he lost his nerve—he leaned in and pressed his lips to Curley’s. He pulled back, waiting to see the other man’s reaction.

“Good _night_ , Johnny.” Curley said again after a brief pause, but didn’t push him away. Johnny fell asleep sprawled across Curley’s chest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s late at night and Johnny is emboldened by liquor.

“I fold.” Billy tossed his cards down on the table. “I’m callin’ it a night. Curley’s cleaned us both out.” He got up and made for the sleeping area. “Goodnight, Johnny. Curley.” He nodded at the two men.

“Night,” Curley said. He gathered up the cards, picked up a lamp and the three-quarters-empty bottle of bourbon from the table, and went to the door. “You comin’?” He asked Johnny.

“Yeah.” Johnny yawned and stretched over the back of his chair. He stood and followed Curley across the yard to the outbuilding.

Inside the outbuilding, Curley hung the lamp on a nail in the wall and sat down cross-legged atop the blankets. He took a long swig from the bottle, passed it to Johnny, and began shuffling the cards.

“It’s late,” Johnny said. He pushed the cork into the bottle, pulled his boots off, and sat down opposite Curley.

“Mmm,” Curley hummed, dealing out two hands.

“You really wanna keep playin’?” Johnny asked. “Or is there somethin’ else you want?” He knew it was the drink talking, but said it anyway.

Curley’s head snapped up and he looked sharply at Johnny. “Like what?” He asked.

Johnny reached out and took the deck of cards from Curley’s hand. He placed it between them on the blanket and reached for his hand once more. “Tell me what you want from me,” he said softly. Curley tried to snatch his hand away, but Johnny had a tight grip on his fingers. “Tell me what you want,” he repeated.

Curley scowled. “I dunno what you—.” He swallowed the rest of the sentence in a gulp as Johnny laced their fingers together.

Johnny swept the cards aside with his free hand and scooted across the blanket until he was right up close to Curley. “I think you want to kiss me,” he murmured.

Curley scoffed and began to turn away, turned back and, trying to sound nonchalant, asked, “So what if I do?”

Heart racing, Johnny leaned forward and tentatively brushed his lips against Curley’s. Curley jerked back, a brief look of panic crossing his face, then, slowly, he grinned. He returned the kiss, hungrily, pulling Johnny down onto the blankets. They kissed urgently, hands caressing each other, and fumbling the fastenings of their clothes open in the dim light of the lamp.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue, set after the events of the film.

“I guess you’re in charge here now?”

Yeah,” said Curley. He leaned on the fence marking the boundary of of the San Pablo ranch. “I guess I am.” Johnny sat astride his horse a few feet off. They regarded each other silently for several seconds. “You still gonna wear that badge?” Curley asked.

Johnny touched his hand to the Deputy’s badge pinned on his jacket. “Yeah,” he replied.

“I suppose you’ll post me up as soon as I put a toe outta line.”

“I’m the law now.”

They lapsed into silence again. Johnny picked at a crack in the leather of his saddle.

“I was thinkin’ I might move on.” Curley said.

“Oh?” Johnny looked up. “Where would you go?”

“I dunno. Just... away.”

“When?”

Curley looked at the ground, thinking. “Tomorrow...” he murmured, nodding to himself. He looked up at Johnny. “Tomorrow.”

Well,” Johnny heaved a sigh. “Bye, then.”

“Yeah. Bye.” Curley turned and began walking slowly toward the ranch house.

“Curley.” Johnny called after him. Curley continued walking. “D’you wanna do one more round of shootin’ practice before you go? For old times’ sake?”

Curley stopped and turned back to Johnny. “See you at dawn. Our old spot.” He turned and resumed his slow walk.

“Yeah, dawn tomorrow,” Johnny called after him. “Tomorrow,” he repeated to himself. He turned his horse and rode off back along the dirt track toward Warlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, that’s it. I have a one-shot for these two drafted too, so subscribe to the series if you want a notification when it’s posted. 
> 
> I was really expecting no-one at all to read this, so I’m absolutely delighted by the 10 hits it’s had so far! Do drop a comment if you want to. I’d love to hear from other _Warlock_ fans, or just casual consumers of western fic.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve no idea if anyone wants to read this. It doesn’t look like western fandom is especially into transformative works, but I wrote it anyway because I want to see MLM cowboys mutually pining after each other. If you _are_ reading, I hope you enjoy it, and I’d love it if you’d drop a comment below so I know I’m not completely alone in my quest for sad cowboy fanfic.
> 
> If you want to watch _Warlock_ , it’s available here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1yk41B-Z6o


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